by Toby Neal
Brannan straightened back up. “One part talent, one part luck, one part showmanship,” he said. “That’s the recipe for success around here. Man. I’m having a tough time thinking about someone murdering Makoa Simmons.”
Lei pointed at Oulaki, paddling back to the crowded lineup. “There’s all kinds of talk about the rivalry between Oulaki and Simmons. He sure benefited from Makoa being gone from the lineup. I heard he’s in the Torque house front bedroom already.”
Brannan’s face darkened. “That’s just wrong.”
Lei pretended to fiddle with her settings. “I heard another rumor—that Makoa’s been getting a lot of hate mail. You know anyone who had it in for him?”
“Oulaki. Everyone knows about that. But there’s a group of really local North Shore guys, always doing the ‘keep the country, country’ thing. Hassling guys from the Mainland and other countries who try to get into the lineup.” Brannan was still frowning. “I don’t like to pass anything on, because I don’t want to get on their bad side. Photogs they don’t like get their tires slashed, equipment ends up in the surf, like that.”
Lei widened her eyes and pretended to shiver. “What? Who are these guys so I can stay away from them?”
“They wouldn’t hassle a pretty local girl like you,” Brannan said with a reassuring smile. “They call themselves the North Shore Posse.”
“Wow, and I just thought I’d take a weekend and come over here and shoot some pictures,” Lei said, dimpling at him. “I write stories for the surf mags sometimes under a pen name, and I’m planning a story on the Makoa Simmons’s death. Got any names for me?”
“No wonder you’re asking so many questions.” Brannan shook a finger at her. “You be careful stirring the shit, now.”
“I write under a pen name. A male pen name,” Lei emphasized. “What can you tell me?”
“You can’t quote me no matter what your name is. But I’d like to see a spotlight on those guys, especially if they had anything to do with Makoa Simmons’s death.” Brannan gave her several names, which Lei punched into her phone’s notes feature. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I also thought it was kind of fishy how Makoa’s girlfriend’s friend was always hitting on him out here, spending time with him. I met Shayla Cummings, shot her for Maui Girl bikinis, and I liked her. That friend of Shayla’s, Pippa? Not really a good friend.”
Lei felt her stomach lurch at this unexpected news. She’d liked the pretty blonde she’d spoken with, thought she was so supportive of Makoa’s distraught girlfriend. But maybe she’d had another agenda. This was the missing piece Lei had sensed.
“When was she out here last?”
“Just last week. I saw her and Makoa arguing.” Brannan’s mouth tightened. “I was setting up for my shoot for the day. It was early, the sun was hardly up and no one else was on the beach yet, but the house is right there.” Brannan pointed to the beach house Lei had so recently visited. “They came out of the house and were arguing on the beach in front. It seemed like Makoa was giving her a brush-off. First he kissed her, and then he put his hands on her shoulders and talked in her face, really intense. I was feeling bad for watching, so I looked away. Then, when I looked back, he was gone and she had her hands on her hips, just staring after him. I got the feeling she was upset.”
“Wow. I have a lot of leads here. Thanks so much,” Lei said, batting her eyes. The light had gone, rendering the surf into shades of gray. The surfers were straggling in, silhouettes against the pearly sky. Brannan, a dim shadow beside her, shook his head.
“Like I said, you can’t quote me. I hope someone finds whoever killed Makoa.” He unscrewed his camera and stowed it in the heavy Pelican case on the sand beside his tripod. “See you around?”
“I’ll be back out here bright and early in the morning,” Lei said. “I really appreciate this.”
Brannan seemed to be regretting he’d talked to her as he slammed shut his tripod and shoved the legs into it with abrupt snaps, picking up his case and departing. Lei followed suit more slowly, disassembling the tripod and looping the camera around her neck. She was conscious of gathering darkness along the edge of the beach, slanting out from the palm trees and brightly lit windows of the beach houses.
It wouldn’t be a good idea to get caught asking questions out here on the long dark beach, alone and unarmed.
Lei hung the Canon around her neck and snapped the legs of her tripod in. She glanced out at the ocean and noticed that, even though the sun was gone but for a smear of gold at the horizon, she could still see surfers out in the lineup, tiny black blots against the darkening sea.
“That’s how late you gotta stay out fo’ beat da crowd.” A rough male voice spoke from the gloom beside her. Lei spun toward the speaker but couldn’t make out much besides a looming male shadow. She lifted the tripod, trying not to appear concerned or defensive.
“I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”
“Not everyone around here knows what they’re doing.” His voice was low and unfriendly.
Lei turned to fully face the man addressing her. The beach had emptied rapidly, and somehow she was alone out here with him and the ocean at her back. She didn’t want to escalate whatever his beef was.
“I’m sure you’ve seen a few kooks,” she said.
“And people who ask too many questions.” He took a step toward her. Six foot, a hundred and eighty or so pounds, probably local from his pidgin—but she couldn’t make out his features.
“I don’t know what you overheard, but I’m a writer doing a piece on Makoa Simmons,” Lei said. Her heart was hammering. She never should have left her badge and weapon at the apartment, but they’d seemed hard to conceal with her skimpy outfit. She bent her knees slightly and held the tripod in a ready position, preparing to hit him with it if she needed to.
“No talk smack about the North Shore Posse,” the man continued. “If we don’t speak up, this whole coast going be filled with haoles, Brazilians, and Euros.”
“Hey, I just heard Makoa was getting hate mail and thought it was interesting. Did the North Shore Posse send that mail?” Might as well try to get some information.
The graphic sound of the man hawking a loogie was her answer. “Get gone, bitch, or you’ll find out how we treat outsiders who stir the shit around here.”
Lei backed up until she was on the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge. The man didn’t move as she turned and speed-walked away toward her unit.
She glanced back several times, but he didn’t follow her. She powered back to the vacation rental and didn’t draw a full breath until she was safe inside the unit with the door locked.
She called Marcus Kamuela, her de facto partner here on Oahu. “I met someone from the North Shore Posse,” she said when he picked up. She described the encounter. “It seems like they might be behind the hate mail, at least, though the guy didn’t confirm or deny, just launched a world-class spitball next to my foot.”
“I’ve heard of the Posse. Now I’m going to worry about you, and God forbid you call Stevens and tell him. He’ll get on the next plane over and really ‘stir the shit’ for you,” Kamuela scolded.
“I know.” She paced back and forth, burning off the last of the adrenaline. “It was just a hassle to find somewhere to stash my weapon when I wasn’t wearing much.”
“Carry a purse like every other woman, for God’s sake. You know Marcella carries the kitchen sink in hers.”
“Okay, well. I will from here on out.” Lei eyed her backpack. It was going to have to continue to do everything.
“And I’ll see if I can find any North Shore Posse connections to interview tomorrow.”
“More will be revealed. I just wanted to keep you up to speed. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Lei hung up and put a chair under the locked door handle of the apartment before she took her Glock into the bathroom with her for a before-bed shower.
Chapter Twelve
Breaking a few speed limits, Stevens reached Kahu
lui, Maui’s main town, a utilitarian urban sprawl built up around the airport and shipping complex at the harbor. He started his search at the harbor, pulling the Bronco up to a cluster of tents illegally pitched behind boulders at the waterfront.
He flicked on a flashlight as he got out of the truck, but almost didn’t need the light because the moon was so high. Wind off the water tossed Stevens’s hair and snagged at his clothes like reaching hands as he approached the tents.
Dark figures looked up at his approach. They were clustered around a smoking lantern and hibachi with hot dogs cooking on it, judging by the smell. Stevens kept the light down, off their faces, and pitched his voice low.
“I’m looking for someone, a woman. About five seven in height, a hundred and ten pounds. Blonde hair, in her late fifties.”
“No, sorry, man,” finally came from the fire area. Stevens was saddened to see several children clustered in the doorway of the tent. “No haole women here.”
“Thanks. I’m looking for her and will give a cash reward for any tips.” He handed the shadowy figure who had spoken his card. “Fifty bucks, no questions asked, if you call with where you’ve seen her.”
The man took the card. “Fifty bucks. We’ll keep an eye out.”
Stevens went on, working his way down the beach, giving out cards.
He’d come to know the locations of the nests and knots of homeless through his officers at the Haiku Station, many of whom had occasion to go out and answer calls at the locations for anything from first aid to assault. Like any expensive vacation area, funds were short for providing housing and services to the indigent. With real estate at a premium, the community dealt with the problem by selectively ignoring little encampments that popped up until they became a problem. One too many assaults or burglaries usually triggered a sweep, and the homeless were disbanded temporarily until they formed some new out-of-the-way cluster.
There seemed to be no long-term solution, but Stevens hated it when there were children involved. Kids should have a bed to sleep in, clean clothes, showers, good food. He’d had those things; his wife had not.
But this is America, and people are free to be poor however they like. Dark thoughts fluttered around Stevens’s mind as he worked his way across town. He was getting into the truck from where he’d been talking to people in a makeshift cardboard box village when the radio crackled into life.
He heard his call sign and picked up. “Lieutenant Stevens. Go ahead, Dispatch.”
“Disturbance call in the parking lot of the Ale House, Kahului.”
“Ten four,” Stevens said. “Requesting additional units.” He’d asked to be notified of any disturbances that could involve his mother, but he didn’t want to end up handling a bar brawl by himself off the clock.
Another unit chimed in. Stevens put his cop light on the dash and whipped the Bronco out of the cardboard village clustered in the graveled lot behind a decrepit shopping center where he’d been looking for Ellen.
Stevens pulled into the parking lot of the Ale House, a popular pickup bar and restaurant in the center of Kahului. He was relieved to hear the wail of the backup units approaching as he jumped out of the Bronco, heading for a knot of people around a screaming couple. His heart lurched as he spotted a whirl of blonde hair, silvery in the yellow glow of street lamps. Onlookers from the restaurant and parking lot obscured his view.
He held up his badge as he shoved through the crowd, yelling, “Police! Let me through!
The couple was down on the ground, hitting and hair pulling by the time he reached them. He grabbed the woman by the shoulders and hauled her off the man she was beating with an unbroken beer bottle.
Her shoulders felt frail in his hands, but her mouth was a snarling void, her eyes bloodshot pits as she swung the bottle at him. Dodging the blow, the only feeling Stevens had was relief as he saw she was a skinny young tweeker in a too-tight top. Not his mother. That second of distraction gave the woman an opportunity to crack him in the ribs with the bottle before he was able to subdue her.
He had the combatants separated and zip-tied by the time the other officers arrived. Getting up, he cupped his throbbing ribs.
He’d seen Ellen as crazed as the tweeker, and it wasn’t pretty. The relief that this hadn’t been her was tempered by renewed worry and dull anger that beat through his tired, bruised body. Getting back in his Bronco, he rested his forehead on the steering wheel, overcome by the memory.
He’d just graduated high school, and it had been bittersweet without his father, who’d died two years before. His mother had come and had managed to keep herself together through the ceremony, but he hadn’t dared go to any of the many graduation parties he’d been invited to without going home to check on her—and he was glad he had.
She was totally blitzed and angry, cursing their father for dying on her and chasing sixteen-year-old Jared around the house and beating him with a bottle. He’d had to restrain her and lock her in her room until she slept it off. That was when he’d decided to go to the military instead of college—he’d just wanted to be totally gone from the house.
Stevens still felt bad about leaving Jared there to deal with her back then. He’d done his best for his brother by setting up friends and relatives to take him in whenever she was on a bender. And now, this was no way for him to spend his off-duty hours.
He had a son who needed him.
Stevens rolled down his window and got an officer’s attention. “Take them in for a night in the drunk tank. I’m going home.”
Once you’d been grabbed for any reason, you just aren’t the same. Lei reflected on how the many attacks she’d endured as a police officer over the years had changed her as she showered. She wasn’t going anywhere without a weapon from here on out.
She got out of the shower and noticed that her phone’s battery was low. She plugged it in and opened the fridge, hoping for something left over from the tenant before.
A Styrofoam lunch container sat on the shelf of the mostly empty refrigerator, along with a couple of Longboard Lagers.
Thanks for coming to look for Makoa’s killer. Least we could do! Aloha from Aunty Connie and Uncle Fred, read a Post-it note on top of the box. Her vacation rental hosts, now an aunty and uncle.
“I love Hawaii.” Lei took out the meal, a typical artery-hardening selection of local food: two scoops of white rice, a mountain of teriyaki beef strips, and a mound of macaroni salad. A wilting orchid added a tropical touch. Her stomach rumbled as she transferred the rice and beef to a china plate and into the microwave while she made short work of the mac salad.
Finally, dinner eaten, sipping a Longboard, she called Pono.
She heard a football game on in the background as she put her feet up against the little Formica table in the unit. “Hey, partner. Picked up something very interesting during my stint as a photographer tonight.”
“What?” Pono muted the TV. “Make it quick, woman. I’m going to bed early tonight, trying to catch up on some z’s from the last couple of days.”
“Yeah. Remember the cute blonde friend of Shayla’s?” Lei told him about Pippa’s apparent attempt to steal Makoa from her best friend. “Maybe she found out he was going to ask Shayla to marry him and it pushed her over the edge.”
“Wouldn’t she go after Shayla, not Simmons? And isn’t our suspect male?”
“Yeah, but I’m wondering if she hooked up with someone who has an ax to grind with Makoa. And she helped in some way.”
“What way?”
Lei took a pull off her Longboard Lager. The beer was light, cool, and delicious. She’d missed beer while she was pregnant. Thought of a good thing about losing Baby—I get to drink beer.
The thought made her throat close on a wave of revulsion. She coughed.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just a little beer down the wrong pipe,” she said. Grief still ambushed her way too often, with its familiar twin, guilt. She’d lost Baby through her own recklessness. She�
�d always believe it, no matter what the doctor said.
“Anyway. I have this feeling about the engagement ring. That it’s telling us something important,” she continued.
“What if the ring wasn’t for Shayla? What if Simmons was getting ready to ditch Shayla for her friend Pippa?”
The beer bottle froze in Lei’s hand as she considered this. “I don’t know, Pono. The photog who saw them said he saw Makoa and Pippa arguing pretty seriously outside the team house. He left her. Doesn’t seem like he was getting ready to ditch Shayla. And if Shayla was acting about how grief-stricken she was over his death, she’d earn an Academy Award.”
“True. I was there. Both girls were both really broken up, if I recall correctly. But they always say, follow the money. Money, love, revenge, hiding something. Those are the main motives for murder. Stopping to consider the money motive, there are several people who benefit from Makoa’s death. Torque has a big payout on his life insurance, his father is going to get three million in badly needed cash, and his girlfriend is cleaning up, too. It’s beginning to look like Makoa was worth more dead than alive.”
“Just for the sake of argument, I’m going with the love and revenge motives. Say Makoa had something going on with Pippa, as you suggested. Or, he was going to ask Shayla to marry him but now has feelings for Pippa, so popping the question is on hold. He tells Pippa not to say anything; that he’s going to break up with Shayla on Maui this weekend. Shayla gets wind of it somehow; she enlists her ex, Tadeo, who ropes Oulaki into doing the deed. So we have three of four major motives covered: money, love, revenge.”
They sat for a long moment.
“I’m thinking we need to reinterview these girls pretty closely,” Lei said. “Show them both the ring. See what pops. And I need to dig a little deeper here. See if I can find anyone else to say anything about Pippa and Makoa’s relationship.”
Pono sighed. “I don’t like this new direction.”
“Me neither.” Lei took a long swig of beer. It burned going down as she thought of the two girls, crying in each other’s arms. One of them might have betrayed the other in the worst possible way. “And that’s not the only motive I’ve found here. There’s the North Shore Posse.” She described the hate mail and her encounter at the beach that evening.